Confessions Over Mango Ice Cream
It was an ordinary weekend with my grandmother, us making mango ice cream by hand at her large table in Kolkata. “You know I was married to a terrible man. Your grandfather killed all my dreams and made me, a college-educated woman, have five children against my will and cook all day.” With these words, my 80-year-old grandmother took her husband of 60 years, a man revered for his scholarly presence and success, off the pedestal. Her confession elevated my standard for love. That day I vowed to shine bright and never let a man or marriage dim my light. — Gargi Sen
The Hard Part
Boniface was the artist-in-residence at my hotel in Arusha, Tanzania. When I said I’d be leaving the next day to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, he set his paintbrush down. “I’m proud of you.” His statement was both honey and venom. The one thing I yearned to hear from my emotionally unavailable father was uttered by a stranger. “Well, I haven’t done it yet,” I said. I was nursing a sore Achilles, frightened, doubting my abilities. “You’ve already done the hard part,” he said. “You’re here. Now you just need to walk up a mountain.” Those words guided me to the summit. — Maggie Downs
Darkness Followed by the Dawn
Julie stood at the funeral home entrance, hugging my cousins as if she’d known them forever. In the span of three years, I’d lost my beloved mother, my only sister, my uncle, my cousin, my husband of 25 years and my job. My past was shattered, but my future was safe in my new love’s gentle hands. Julie brought me water as I stood beside my sister’s coffin. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. I expect her to leave after so much sadness, but she stays. She is tiny and steadfast and true, and her love is bigger than the sun. — Katrina Willis
Mrs. Reiter
My last name is Reiter. For 32 years, I worked at Barneys, the department store. One day, I had a customer with the same last name. Just as I finished helping her, our eyes met. I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Reiter.” When I heard myself say those words, it echoed through my being. Growing up, how many times did I hear others address my mother the same way? It was so familiar, but, by then it had been decades since I heard the phrase. I was transported to my boyhood self, holding hands with my pretty mother as she shopped. — Mark Reiter
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